‘We’ve talked to Mossad,’ said Sir Gerald Daniels. ‘They’ve got the best network of spies throughout the Middle East, and even they don’t have a clue where Hassad might be hiding the woman. They can’t even give us any pointers as to why Hezbollah are pulling this stunt now.’

‘Looks like this guy is the best chance we have,’ said Muir.

Sir Angus looked down the table. ‘Please try not to screw it up.’

Porter felt a surge of adrenalin shooting through his veins: maybe, just maybe, I’ve pulled this off. He glanced at Collinson. He could see a flash of irritation pass across his face, but within the next few seconds it was replaced by a relaxed smile. At his side, Layla stood up, saying she would get the technicians to put through the call. Hassad hadn’t given them a phone number. It was too dangerous: even a mobile phone could be tracked by the American satellite systems, and the Firm could always borrow the CIA kit for a day. Instead he’d given them a Skype number, which allowed him to make a call over the Internet. The call would be routed through the Web, and would contact Hassad at the other end. The technicians had been trying to use the number to get a location, but it was impossible. The call was routed though a hundred different Web servers and computers, some of them just Internet cafés in the back streets of Damascus or Cairo, and some of them home computers that had been hijacked by viruses. There was no way of telling where the call had come from. Hezbollah, along with al-Qaeda, were experts in using the Internet to communicate safely, with no chance of their location being cracked.

‘The guy’s a fuck-up, we can’t trust him,’ said Collinson suddenly.

The technicians were still fiddling around with the Internet connections. The Skype call was going through so many different routers, it was taking several minutes just to reach Hassad. He’d answer, there was no question of that. He’d already been in touch to confirm he’d taken Katie hostage, and to show them the webcam that was going to broadcast her execution live to the world next Saturday night. Wherever he was holed up, he had an Internet connection, and it was kept live twenty-four hours a day. It was just a question of patching the call through.

Porter could feel his heart thumping. He knew it was still possible to blow this.

‘We’ve read the files,’ said Peter Thornton. ‘On Porter’s one and only combat mission for the Regiment, three men died. It was the worst round of casualties since the Falklands, and there was nothing as bad until Iraq One. So, no, he didn’t exactly cover himself in glory. But no blame was officially attached to Porter, and …’ He paused, deciding not to continue along that path. ‘We haven’t seen him or heard from him for at least a decade. So his record isn’t great, but it doesn’t disqualify him either.’